Will they or won't they?
by SilentG
Summary: Not 50 First Dates. Rather, one first date, one second date, one third date, etc. Some things move so slowly that they seem to be stationary, but then one day you look and everything’s changed.
1. AT THE AIRPORT

**Author:** SilentG  
**Title:** Will they or won't they?  
**Fandom:** LO:CI  
**Pairing:** B/A  
**Rating:** T for now  
**Spoilers:** Maybe, see individual chapter A/Ns.  
**Archive:** Anywhere – no need to ask – just attribute, and let me know if possible  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine  
**Summary:** Not 50 First Dates. Rather, one first date, one second date, one third date, etc. Some things move so slowly that they seem to be stationary, but then one day you look and everything's changed.

**A/N 1:** The first chapter resembles a similar fic by Sharkie2008; I have her permission to use elements from her recent one-shot, "Airports". Go read it, it's awesome! This takes place in the near future, like all my B/A fics. Chapter spoilers for: Faithfully (Season 8)

_____

**CHAPTER ONE: AT THE AIRPORT**

Bobby Goren stood in the waiting area of Domestic Arrivals feeling foolish. He looked around for a trash can, but none presented itself. He thought of just leaving the flowers on a seat somewhere, but knowing his luck, he'd get collared by Airport Security for abandoning a potential WMD and that would be even more embarrassing. Yeah, being grilled under the bright lights while the bomb squad blew up his 'welcome home' impulse purchase would be a memorable way to mark his partner's return.

His _partner_. When had he forgotten that she was his partner? Well, he knew the answer. He forgot _completely_ for about 20 seconds when he met her at the ferry terminal on the way to the Conlon murder a few months ago. She'd stomped off the ferry, frowning, but as soon as she'd seen him her face had lighted up, her body language relaxed, and she couldn't stop smiling. _Seeing him had made her happy._ He wanted to see her look like that again.

The plane was late. No, wait, it wasn't – time was just crawling by for _him_. Had she thought about him while she was in Phoenix? Probably not. He'd thought about her, of course – but he thought about her all the time, nowadays. He'd worked through her vacation, and worked especially on trying to stay focused, get along with everyone. He didn't like the idea that anyone – especially Eames – thought that she had to stay partners with him because he'd fall apart otherwise.

The moment he saw people piling out from the gate, he decided to go with his original plan with the flowers – hopefully she wouldn't think it was weird or unpartnerly. Hopefully she'd be happy, smile the same way she had before, and it would be nice and relaxed and not weird at all. And maybe after she would even think it would be nice to go to dinner. He felt in his pocket for the $42 cash he had left, after the flowers. He'd packed his lunch every day to save money and was pretty sure it would be enough for him to take her for a meal, if she'd like.

Then he heard her laughing – _laughing_! He felt his breath hitch in anticipation, looked down the line of people, saw Eames strolling up the ramp, tanned and so pretty in a white sundress that was a bit too light for spring in New York, chatting with another passenger. He tried to stay his hungry eyes from gorging on her looking so happy and relaxed and _there_, so close, and before he knew it she was close enough for him to call out, "Eames!" – _Eames? _Geez, where did that come from? What a dork. And she was turning to him with a look of amazement, and the guy she was walking with turned with a frown, and she was walking over too him much faster now, and smiling up at him as if he were just about her favourite thing in the whole world.

"Bobby! Are you here for me?" she asked happily, winging the guy, who'd followed her over, with a sliver of her megawatt smile. "Sam, this is my partner Bobby. Bobby, this is Sam, we sat together on the plane." The men nodded to each other, and she added, "I guess I won't need to share a cab after all, sorry." She didn't sound sorry, which made Goren feel quite cheery. She touched Goren's hand and he was so startled, he dropped the flowers he'd forgot he was holding. "These for me," she asked, darting down to grab them before he could bend over.

"Uh, yeah," he said lamely, feeling a bit embarrassed now that they weren't really alone.

"They're nice. Thanks," she said, placing them carefully in the crook of her arm. Goren was anxious to get going and started shuffling towards the exit. "Bobby… I just have to get my bags, OK?" she said with a knowing look. "Been waiting long?" she said with a smirk. "My partner gets antsy when he goes too long with nothing to do," she said to Sam, who was still hanging around like a lost puppy.

"Do you, um, need a ride somewhere?" Goren said to Sam. Eames seemed surprised to hear the offer, and he instantly kicked himself. This guy seemed to be sniffing around her, but he wouldn't have lingered if he'd already gotten her number.

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," he said. "Into the City if you're heading that way." He walked back towards the luggage carousels, but Eames hung back, handing Goren her bag and the flowers and giving him a very sceptical look before heading over to claim her luggage. When she glanced back at him, he grinned sheepishly and shrugged, and she rolled her eyes.

*****

*****

_What's wrong with me? This isn't a date,_ Eames fretted to herself as she stared at the hypnotically-revolving carousel track, and the luggage tumbling down the chute. Lately, she'd been feeling so drawn to Goren physically, and seeing him unexpectedly and in a non-work setting had sent a debilitating stab of arousal through her body before she could steel herself for it. Even now, she was having trouble not just turning and _staring_ at him. He looked _so good!_ And he'd gotten her flowers! _Flowers!!_ Aaaaah, It was so hard not to read a million things into that – none of which were probably true, she thought glumly. She felt a tingling, a pressure, on her lower back, as if he were tugging her towards him with a ribbon attached to her womb. She fancied he was looking at her, and resisted the urge to turn on a dime and try to catch his expression. Would she see a mirror of the hunger she felt inside? She couldn't risk it.

She saw her bags, and marched briskly to claim them. The quicker they got out of there, the quicker they could lose Sam. He was nice enough, but she'd really prefer to be alone with Bobby. Maybe he'd let her buy him dinner? And why did the big lug have to offer Sam a ride, for Pete's sake? He was certain to offer her his phone number, and she really didn't want Bobby thinking she went around picking up guys all over the place. But maybe Goren was just being nice to her, which would mean that there was no reason to not be nice to Sam, which would mean it didn't matter what she did with Sam's number. A depressing thought.

**---**

"Where are you parked?" Eames asked as they emerged from the airport.

"A long way off," Goren replied, waving absently in the direction of the sea of cars. "Sorry, I didn't think to go pick it up while you were waiting for your luggage."

"Oh that's OK," Eames said, "You know how I love to walk."

"You warm enough, A-Alex," Goren asked, glancing surreptitiously at the goosebumps on her smooth skin.

"Hmmm, I have a sweater in my bag – I'll get it out when we load up your car."

"That's OK, I can grab it now," Goren said, and opened the combination lock on her garment bag with a flourish. He pulled out a lightweight black cotton knit sweater and handed it to her without comment.

"Yup, that's the one," she said with a smirk. Was this Goren being territorial? Or just a showoff. Maybe that's why he didn't pick up his car – he didn't want to leave her alone for a second! Eames almost laughed out loud at such a ridiculous thought.

*********

*****

They both got out of the car to say goodbye to Sam, who lived in a fairly swanky high-rise in midtown. As predicted, he handed her his card after he shook his hand and then Alex's. She turned it over as she got back into his car – the guy had managed to write something personal on the back. Impressive initiative. When had he done that? In the airplane john? Or while the car was moving. He didn't see what she did with Sam's card, as she immediately bent over to grab her flowers. She'd been holding them most of the drive, fiddling with the wrapping and touching the blossoms. She looked over at him with a little smile. "What are you up to tonight?"

"Oh, um, I haven't any plans," he stammered. She hummed and turned to look out the window. He pulled into traffic and drove in the direction of her apartment in silence.

"I'm starving," she declared a few minutes later. "You?"

"Yeah I am," he replied, happy that she hadn't mentioned it with Sam in the car. Did she do that on purpose? "You want to grab some dinner?"

"I'd like that," she said sincerely. "My treat – the least I can do, since you came to fetch me and brought me flowers."

**---**

They dined at a casual tapas bar near Alex's house. They talked – about work, current events, her vacation – but he didn't recall a single word. What he recalled was the way they sat close together at the tiny corner table. How Eames brought her flowers in with her and laid them carefully by her side on the covered bench. How she smiled when the waiter offered to put them in water for her. How the bouquet cut them off from the rest of the patrons, making it seem like their private party. How excited she was by the parade of little dishes of food, and how carefully she listened to him expound the intricacies of Spanish dining and night life. How their knees brushed together sometimes. How she didn't pull away. How she made no effort to hide her eye-rolling scepticism as he tried to explain the recent exoneration of Absinthe, and how she laughed when he magicked a sugar cube from behind her ear.

How he found Sam's card the next morning, discarded on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

_____

**A/N 2:** This will end up a multi-chaptered fic, but each chapter ('date') will stand alone. It's B/A in so far as neither of them will end up with any other person, but I'm as curious as you to find out how far they get. Thanks for reading!

PS: now that I know how to send review replies, all reviewers get a poem.

BTW: Where I live, the luggage pickup area is separated from the non-travellers by a hip-high gate, so friends and family can converse with passengers before they get their luggage. I've been to two airports in New York, but since nobody picked me up from them I didn't make note of the layout of their arrivals areas.


	2. AT THE MOMA

**A/N 1:** This chapter takes place at a fake art exhibit, kind of my 'Fantasy Footbal" picks, but with artists. I'm not educated in Art History or critique; like Goren, I just like to think about it. Any and all inconsistencies, inaccuracies or contradictions in the specs or analysis are entirely mine.

~.~.~.~.~

**CHAPTER TWO: AT THE MOMA**

When Bobby's phone rang, he was at his kitchen sink, doing the breakfast dishes and watching a hummingbird that had come to feed at the bird feeder he'd hung outside.

He wasn't going to answer it. He was afraid that if he moved, the amazing little thing would be scared away. _Tiny, strong, agile, and eats its weight in sugar_, he thought, scrunching up his face to keep from laughing. _Just like someone else I know._

The tiny creature was so captivating, a miracle really. Watching the opalescent colours moving at lightning speed as she busied herself with her primary preoccupation (food), Bobby felt his heart opening with the joy and sorrow of beholding untouchable, perfect beauty.

When a sigh escaped his lips, she darted away, and with a grunt of frustration, he made a dive for the phone.

"Bobby?" _Eames – Alex. _He'd been trying to work on thinking of her by her first name, at least on evenings and weekends.

"Hey, what's up?" His body awoke, buzzing with energy at the possibility of a callout, which would mean he wouldn't have to wait two more days to see her.

"What are you doing today?" Bobby frowned. Alex was speaking in a weird stage whisper, and there was a cacophony of rustles in the background, as if she were dragging the phone through something.

"Uh, nothing really, just dishes and laundry. Why? Where are you?" He was already grabbing his wallet, his badge and gun, and his coat.

"At the MOMA."

"What?" Bobby stopped at his front door and tried to decipher what was going on.

"I'm at the MOMA, the art gallery?" That explained her whispering.

"OK. Do we have a callout?"

"Nooo…" Alex sounded hesitant.

Bobby was getting worried. "Is something wrong?"

There was a sigh at the other end of the line. "No, nothing's wrong, unless you count the fact that I can't make heads nor tails of anything down here."

"What?" Bobby spun around and surveyed his room, trying to dissipate the agitation he was feeling.

"The art. I don't understand any of it."

His worry and frustration boiled over into irritation. "Art? Eames, you gotta be kidding me."

Reacting to his ire, Eames got a bit shirty. "I'm sorry I bothered you. I just thought I'd spend the day here and try to figure some of this stuff out, but I… can't." Bobby relaxed, a pleasant warmth suffusing his body. She needed help, but she couldn't bring herself to ask for it. She wanted _him_ to come explain _art_ to her. He pulled his coat off and put away his badge. For this, he'd need a shower and shave. As he checked that his door was locked before heading to his bathroom, she murmured, "You always told me I should move on from Impressionism, so I thought…"

"Well I never said you should _move on_ from Impressionism…" Now he was impatient to get off the phone.

There was silence on the line, then…

"Well, um, anyway, I guess you're busy, so, um…" Bobby laughed. "What's so funny?"

"I was just thinking that I must have given you the wrong… impression." Bobby bit his lip and smirked at the irritated huff at the other end of the phone. "Where are you?"

"I don't know… somewhere on the second floor."

"Well don't budge. I'll be there in an hour, and I'll call you when I arrive, OK?"

"OK." She sounded happy again.

**O.O.O.O.O**

_I love Paris: The influence of the City of Light on the Modernists_

"Eames." Alex was in the gift shop when her phone rang. Bobby had told her not to move, but she got bored just sitting in front of Matisse's reactionary Fauvist painting _Le Bonheur de Vivre_, so she decamped to the main level, where she wandered around a bit before ending up here. Surrounded by swag branded with the title of the touring exhibit, she retreated to the books section, looking for something Bobby might like that he hadn't already read.

"Hey, um, Alex, I'm on the second floor. Where are you?" Oops. Bobby sounded out of breath, poor guy. Alex smiled.

"Actually, I got bored, so I'm down in the gift shop." She handed the sales clerk her debit card and stuck her purchases in her purse.

"Bored? How could you be bored? You've got Dali, Chagall," Alex heard a gasp from the other end of the line, "Here's a _Miró_."

As she left the shop, Alex couldn't stop grinning. "Bobby. It's all Greek to me. I want to start over, the whole thing. The beginning of the exhibit is on Level 3, so I'll meet you up there, OK?"

His answer sounded distracted, and he hung up mid-word, making Alex laugh.

She took her time up the stairs, trying to calm her mind and body. She was both nervous and eager to see her partner in a thoroughly casual setting, at her invitation no less. It hadn't been her intention to call him and rope him into spending the day with her when she'd decided to expand her cultural horizons… or had it?

She'd dressed up, up, up, considering that she would be spending the day on her feet, gazing at canvas, surrounded by poor students and intellectuals. She looked down at the knee-length black patent boots with razor heels, and the black knit sleeveless boat-neck cashmere dress that kissed the tops of her footwear as she moved. A matching sweater kept her warm in the unpredictable spring weather, and she'd checked her lined trench coat.

Had she dressed like this for Bobby? It was entirely possible.

She'd managed to call upon years of professional behaviour in order to suppress all but her most partnerly feelings during their work hours, but since he'd shown up like a hopeful lover at the airport for her, she'd found it impossible not to think about him – and what their future might hold that would differ from their past – during her off-hours.

She rounded a corner to find the man who'd taken up permanent residence in her mind looking adorable, standing in front of a really, really weird painting by an artist she'd never heard of.

The sight of him made her want to squirm and press her knees together, her physical reaction to him was so strong. He was dressed in nicely-fitting blue jeans and dress shirt, with his suit jacket over his arm and brightly polished shoes. He was freshly shaven, and a hint of a musky, expensive aftershave wafted towards her. His expression, as he stood believing he was unobserved, was boyish, entranced. She found him irresistible.

"Hey, you," she murmured as she sidled up to him.

He looked down in surprise, then smiled a huge, beautiful smile. "Hey, you." He gestured to the painting. "Did you already look at the Lams?"

"Yeah, I spent hours on the Lam," she said drily.

With a guileless expression, he gazed down at her. "And?"

Alex rolled her eyes. "It was a joke. A cop joke."

"What would your nephew say?"

"A lam-e cop joke."

"You said it, not me," he replied, chuckling.

**o.o.o.o.o**

Turned out he was a fan of the Lam – Wifredo Lam, "A contemporary of Picasso, although he was much younger." Bobby's eyes flashed and the words flowed even as he stuttered with excitement as they moved from piece to piece. "He's not a favourite of mine, but I was always drawn to the juxtaposition of themes: the very Paris-influenced cubism, the sensual but intentionally grotesque primitivism, and those little figures that you could look at as threatening, but I've always seen as whimsical, um, humorous."

Bobby stopped dead and looked at her sheepishly. _Does he realise that he holds his breath every time he's waiting for me to say something?_ She had to be careful… the bubbles of affection she was feeling wanted to express themselves in an impromptu embrace.

"I don't know if I'd call anything I've seen today 'whimsical', but I'm liking it a lot better looking at it with you."

"You can see how he, um, took Picasso's influence in a subtle way," he continued, a little self-consciously. "Cubism is a very sterile form of expression, and Picasso gave it life by using it as a road map to his own life. Picasso's life was his women… Wifredo Lam's life was Cuba."

"Cubism, Cuba?" Alex asked with a smirk.

"No connection. But Cuba was all about awkward juxtapositions… European globetrotters on top of Spanish settlers, on top of African-American slaves, on top of Amerindians. Santeria on top of Catholicism, on top of Voodoo, on top of tribal traditions."

"Hmmm," she said, in lieu of saying actual words, which might have turned out to be, '_You're adorable_,' or something equally embarrassing.

**o.o.o.o.o**

"So do you still love impressionism?"

Bobby was touching her, a lot. She wasn't complaining, but it was keeping her off-balance. They'd made their way around the top floor of the exhibit, looking at the Dalis – "Did you know he's buried at his own museum?" At her look of scepticism, "It's true! Visitors have to walk over his sarcophagus to finish the tour!" – The Chagalls – "You like him, I can tell." "_He's kind of…_" she felt embarrassed saying it, "_Romantic_." Bobby looked at her thoughtfully. "They are. His wife…" he looked away, "Was his life. She permeated every atom of his imagination, his philosophy, and his creative output." – And the Miró – "I… I have nothing to say."

They were in front of the Matisse she'd called him from. He'd been talking about the progression from Impressionism – showing similar subjects, but showing the figures inhabiting their environment, rather than simply ornamenting it.

"I don't think I ever said I _loved_ it… in fact, after our conversation, I took a really good look at the Impressionist paintings I was drawn to, and I figured something out."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow at her and rested his hand in the middle of her back. Alex hoped the twitch she felt in her womb didn't make its way to his fingers. "What's that?"

She looked back at the painting, stuck her chin out and declared, "Impressionism is very easy to like, but it's difficult to love."

Bobby barked out a laugh so loud that he got glares and frowns from most of the people in their corridor. "That's… really insightful, Eames."

Alex rolled her eyes. "Don't look so surprised." Bobby shook his head, _never_. "I've been thinking about this for a while, Goren. It turns out that I can figure out for myself what's wrong with stuff I like, but I need you to help me see what's good about stuff I don't like." Neither of them commented on the subtext of her remark.

O.O.O.O.O

It wasn't until around three, when they took a break from art and went to grab sandwiches and much-needed fluids at the cafeteria, when they finally actually talked about the theme of the exhibit.

The day so far had been magical; Bobby almost couldn't bear the pleasure he was experiencing in Alex's company. For one thing, she looked _absolutely beautiful…_ He'd told her as much… well, not in those exact words. "You look, um, nice." He cringed a bit at the memory.

But the rest of his conversation was objectively scintillating, he thought. At least, Eames, who had professed boredom just hours earlier, seemed to be hanging on every word. She stood very close to him, he noticed, as they walked from painting to painting. In her trim, very fashionable black _ensemble_, she seemed very tiny and together and alluring. She made him feel big and strong and wise and proud to be with her.

He was also making her laugh. A magical sound that made him glad they were seated, because it went straight to his crotch. It started when she asked him about Jackson Pollock.

"How come your favourite isn't in the exhibit?"

"My favourite?"

"The guy who sprayed paint from a water pistol."

"Oh, Pollock. Because he didn't have a Paris period. But he has a permanent exhibit here – maybe we could view it another day." He'd said the words offhandedly, but then stuttered and almost choked on his food when he realised what he'd suggested.

"Sure, sounds good," was her casual reply. "So why Paris?" She was referring to the theme of the exhibit.

He proceeded to explain to her the hot-house of culture that was Paris, and how the combination of sensual delights, other creators from every medium, intellectualism, and the French language itself helped to shape artists' careers and psyches. "I think the – fierceness – of the French people, and the way cultural appreciation crossed classes and other social boundaries, was a revelation to many, or even most, people who visited Paris. Did you know that some historians and social anthropologists believe that coffee fuelled the French Revolution?" That got a laugh. "Apparently," he found himself laughing with her, delighting in the sexy, musical sounds, "when Frenchmen favoured wine, they just drank themselves into oblivion every night. But when they switched to coffee, all they wanted to do was stay up late, talking."

He just sat there, grinning like a loon, while she laughed so hard that tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.

"You little revolutionary, you," he muttered under his breath. It wasn't that often that he managed to tease her with clever _repartee_.

When she finally quieted down, she asked him if he'd ever visited Paris.

Oh yes, he told her, he went down to visit a girlfriend while he was stationed in Germany. Something in his face or voice must have given away the subtext, because she looked at him sympathetically.

"You found out that she'd moved on?"

"Yeah."

"Well that sucks."

He told her it did. "But I looked back later, at our phone calls and our letters… it ended up being a good, um, lesson…"

"It taught you what to look for when someone's trying to let you down easy?"

"Yeah… when they're…Not really committed."

"A good thing to know."

He told her how, homeless but determined not to leave, he'd stayed at a _Pension_ run by Mafiosi.

"How on earth could you know that?"

"Well, first of all, there were only men running the place, no women." Alex rolled her eyes. "And the only things they cared about were coffee and talking on their cell phones." He mimed using an espresso machine foamer while talking on the phone. Which also got a laugh. Which distracted him temporarily.

"And? I hope you've got more, Detective, because this girl ain't convinced."

"And… there were six of them. For a 20 room hostel, in the middle of the winter. And they were always just sitting there in the little breakfast nook, waiting for visitors. Not guests, visitors. Guys who drove up in huge black Mercs and Rolls's, which were obviously much heavier than the other cars on the road." This time he mimed a car drifting along on its own huge momentum. "Driven by guys who weren't dressed as chauffeurs, but who stayed in the car."

"OK, armoured cars, I get it now."

"Yeah, they'd slow down incrementally, but even so, when they finally stopped, they jiggled back and forth because of the weight." He mimed jiggling.

"Poor Bobby," she said between giggles. "That must have been so strange for you."

"It was," he said, "But the coffee was great."

**O.O.O.O.O**

Their day was over too soon.

She'd asked him his favourite painting – "Guernica. It represents the ultimate humanity, and the ultimate inhumanity." – and commented on the preponderance of Spanish artists in the exhibit – "Aah," he said, wagging a finger at her in a way that made her grin, "You've discovered my master plan." Master plan? He tilted his head and leaned in close. "To continue the Spanish theme from last time." Did he turn away bashfully and actually _kick the ground like a kid_ because he felt shy admitting that both their interludes had been dates?

But then they'd gotten a callout. Alex hoped sincerely that the Captain wouldn't be in attendance at the crime scene, because she felt self-conscious about their attire and the questions he'd undoubtedly ask.

In her car on the way, she'd given him (rather, asked him to fish around in her bag for) the book she'd bought for him. "I didn't know when I bought it how much you liked the juxtaposition of European influences, primitivism and whimsy, but it looked like an interesting combination of art and mythology."

"The Black Canoe." He used the penlight on his key chain to check out the soft-cover coffee table book.

"Yeah. It's a sculpture…"

"…That sits outside the Canadian Embassy in Washington, I know. I love that sculpture. Never seen it in person. It's on Canadian money, you know."

She just managed to bite her tongue before saying, _maybe we should go one day._

"I have something for you, too." Bobby said softly. He pulled out the book that he must have had under his coat all this time. 'I thought you might like this, too."

It was a book of artworks by Chagall. "Wow Bobby, thank you." She was very surprised. "When on earth did you buy it?"

He smiled and looked away. "I didn't. It belonged to my mother."

Alex tried to hide her disappointment. "Oh. Well I'll take extra-good care of it. Thank you."

He looked at her in surprise. "It's a gift."

"But your mom's…"

Bobby smiled. "I've leafed through it so many times, I've got it memorized. I want you to have it, Alex."

She could have kissed his sweet, earnest face.

But she didn't.

~.~.~.~.~

**A/N 2:** I came up with the idea for Chapter 2 almost right after writing the first chapter, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to make it fun to read. Then I sat down Sunday and told myself that I was going to write this thing, dammit, and lo and behold, here it is!

BTW, I promised a poem for each reviewer. Wow, people really like poetry. I've PM'd each reviewer their poem, and I've posted all of them for people to read on my LJ. Link in my pro.

Also, I've posted on LJ a selection of the artwork they discussed. Link in my pro.

Also… someone told me that this chapter has several eerie resemblances to another recently-posted fic – but I swear that it's just a coincidence!

Please, please review!

WORDS: 3281 UPLOADED Wednesday, October 6, 2010


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